“Don’t call me sonny, you son of a bitch!” Teddy reached down to put his hand on the butt of his pistol. “Now I’m going to give you one last chance. I’m going to count to three. You either apologize and clean off my boot, or go for your gun. I don’t care which.”
“Teddy, no!” the young woman said, her words now on the verge of a scream.
“Lucy, you get on out of the way,” Teddy said, waving her away.
“Teddy, please!”
“Miss Lucy, you’d better get on over here,” one of the onlookers said. “It don’t look to me like Teddy’s goin’ to back down.”
“Teddy, I beg of you,” Lucy said. Again she reached for him, but this time Teddy shrugged her off, then pushed her away. The man who had spoken took hold of her, and pulled her out of harm’s way.
“What’s it going to be, mister?” Teddy said to Prichard. “Are you going to clean off my boot? Or do I start counting?”
“I’ve already apologized, and I shall do so again,” Prichard said. “But I’ve no intention of cleaning your boot. So if that is the only thing that can interrupt this danse de la mort you have initiated, then I suggest you start counting,” Prichard said, calmly.
Teddy blinked a couple of times; then a small patina of sweat broke out across his upper lip. It was as if, until that moment, he had thought he could bluff his way through. Now he realized that this man couldn’t be bluffed. He knew, also, that he couldn’t take him. But that realization had come too late. It was impossible for him to back out of it now, without spending the rest of his life in shame.
Teddy licked his lips a couple of times; then, with a voice that had none of the thunder or bluster it had had before, he began counting.
“One,” he said. He paused, then said, “Two.” After the word two, he paused for a long time, hoping, somehow, that the man would stop it. But the man continued to look at him with a cold, unblinking stare.
“Three,” Teddy said, starting his draw even as he said the word.
Although Teddy had never been in a gunfight before, he was pretty fast with a gun, and had often practiced his fast draw. He also had the advantage in that he started his draw first, so that he actually had his gun out, and leveled before Prichard drew his. Realizing that he had won the draw, he smiled and hesitated. Surely, seeing that he was covered, the other man wouldn’t continue with the fight.
But Teddy had underestimated Prichard’s cold detachment. Where Teddy would hesitate before killing a man, Prichard had no such compunction. Prichard pulled his gun and fired.
The bullet plunged into Teddy’s chest, and his eyes opened in shock that such a thing could have actually happened to him. He dropped his gun, then fell back onto the boardwalk.
“Teddy!” Lucy shouted and, pulling away from the person who tried to hold her back, she rushed to her brother’s side, reaching him just as he took his last, gasping breath.
“Miss, I’m very sorry about all this,” Prichard said. “I want it well understood that I did all I could to avoid this fight.”
“What’s your name, mister?” The question was asked by the same man who had held Lucy back from the fight.
“The name is Conner,” Prichard said. “Abe Conner.”
Prichard put his pistol in his holster, then walked into the Silver Spur Saloon. The saloon had been practically emptied when everyone ran outside to see what the gunshot was about. Now they all went back inside to get a closer look at this man who had only today arrived in town, and had already shot and killed one of their citizens.
“I would like a whiskey, please,” Prichard said, his words as devoid of any sense of excitement, fright, or remorse, as if he had just stepped in uneventfully.
The bartender, who had moved to the window to watch the action when all his customers left the saloon, served the whiskey without comment. A moment later a man wearing a badge came in and, seeing Prichard at the bar, walked over to him.
“I’m Sheriff Nelson,” he said.
“It’s very good to meet you, Sheriff Nelson. I’m Abe Conner. Won’t you join me for a drink? Bartender?”
“No,” Sheriff Nelson said, holding his hand out to stop the drink from being poured. “Mr. Conner, you just killed a man.”
“Yes, I’m afraid I did. It was most unfortunate, but as I am sure that any of those who witnessed it will attest, I had no choice. I was literally forced into a kill-or-be-killed moment, despite repeated efforts on my part to defuse the situation.”
“The stranger is right, Sheriff, I seen ever’ thing,” one of the saloon patrons said. “This here feller tried his damndest to keep it from happenin’. He even apologized to the Rogers boy.”
“How about the rest of you?” Sheriff Nelson asked. “Did any of you see it?”
Nearly everyone else in the saloon testified as to having witnessed the shooting, and to a man, they all said that the gunfight had been forced by Teddy Rogers, and that Abe Conner was innocent of any wrongdoing.
Over the next several days, Prichard began to make himself at home in Pecos. He sent a wreath of flowers to the funeral of Teddy Rogers, and made a point of apologizing to Lucy.
“I want you to know how much I regret that the—disagreement that developed between your brother and me got so quickly out of hand.”
Prichard’s apparent contrition for what had happened to Teddy, his gentlemanly behavior, and his soft-spoken manner quickly won the respect of the townspeople. Within a couple of weeks after he arrived in town he was having his dinner when Sheriff Nelson of Pecos County came into the restaurant. Prichard saw the sheriff inquire at the counter, and he saw the clerk pointing toward him.
The sheriff was coming after him! What had happened? Had he gotten word from Kansas? Slowly, and without being observed, Prichard pulled his pistol from its holster and held it under the table. If the sheriff attempted to arrest him, Prichard would kill him.
The sheriff nodded at the clerk, then started toward Prichard’s table. Prichard debated whether or not he should shoot the sheriff even before he reached the table. Slowly, quietly, he pulled the hammer back and turned the pistol slightly, so that it was aimed squarely at the sheriff.
The sheriff was smiling as he approached.
“Mr. Conner?”
That was good. He had called him Conner, and the smile appeared to be friendly rather than triumphant.
“Yes?”
“I would like to talk to you. Would you mind if I joined you?”
“What would be the subject of our conversation?” Prichard said. Then he added, “But please do have a seat.”
Prichard managed to slip his pistol back into its holster without its presence being noticed.
“I’ve been watching you, Mr. Conner. And I’ve had others watching you as well.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, I thought it best to see how the town was taking to you before I made the offer. I wanted to see if there was anyone holdin’ it against you by you killin’ Teddy Rogers. And, since there doesn’t seem to be, I feel I can make the offer without any reservations.”
“You are confusing me, Sheriff Nelson. What offer would that be?”
“I would like to appoint you to the position of deputy sheriff of Pecos County.”
The offer completely shocked Prichard and he almost laughed out loud. Then, before giving away his reaction, he asked, “Why?”
“Well, sir, it’s very obvious that you can handle a gun, Nearly the entire town saw your encounter with young Teddy Rogers.”
Prichard shook his head. “I’m not proud of that, Sheriff. The boy pushed me into it—it actually reached the point of my life or his. I tried to dissuade him as witnesses will attest, and . . .”
Sheriff Nelson held out his hand.
“Please, Mr. Conner, there was absolutely nothing implied in that remark. I’m merely stating that as validation for extending the offer. I’m afraid the county can’t pay much, but we can furnish you with a room in the back of the sheriff’s office, a
nd we have a contract with Kirby’s Café to furnish you all of your meals.”
Prichard’s first reaction was to turn the offer down, but as he thought about it, he realized that having a position in the sheriff’s office would put him on the inside. If any information, such as wanted circulars or physical descriptions, should come in to the sheriff’s office, he would be well situated to take care of it.
Prichard chuckled.
“You are laughing, sir, but I am quite serious.”
“I am laughing, Sheriff, because I never saw myself as a peace officer, but, yes, I think I will accept your offer. Maybe my serving as a deputy sheriff will go a long way in mitigating the unfortunate circumstances of my arrival.”
Sheriff Nelson laughed out loud.
“I’ll say this for you, Conner. You have one hell of a way of talking. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone who wasn’t a college professor, or something, talk the way you do. You’re going to give the sheriff’s office a lot of class. How about coming over to the office after you finish your meal, and I’ll swear you in?”
“I’ll be there,” Prichard promised.
When Prichard showed up at the sheriff’s office a short while later he saw several others there as well. Sheriff Nelson identified them as the mayor, the judge, and the city attorney. The judge administered the oath of office; then the others offered their congratulations.
Smiling, Prichard pinned on the star of his office. Then, after an introductory stroll around town, during which he met the businessmen of the city, he stopped by the telegraph office to send a message to his brother in Shady Rest.
TO DALE MORGAN
HAVE ACCEPTED POSITION AS DEPUTY
SHERIFF IN PECOS COUNTY TEXAS STOP
WILL ENDEAVOR TO DO MY BEST TO KEEP
THE PEACE STOP
ABE CONNER
The telegram sent, Prichard continued his introductory stroll through the town, opening doors for women, greeting the men, and being friendly with the children.
“The best thing ever to happen to us was getting Abe Conner as our deputy,” Paul Peters, the banker, said.
“He is such a gentleman,” Miss Margrabe, the schoolteacher told her friends. “And, so handsome,” she added with a little self-conscious laugh.
“But, don’t forget, he did kill young Teddy Rogers,” Sally White said.
“Everyone, just everyone, says that he had no choice, that he was forced into it,” Miss Margrabe said. “They say that he has apologized to the Rogers family, and I just know he feels very bad about what happened.”
“Why, Margaret, you sound as if you are setting your cap for him,” Sally teased.
“So what if I am? He is an educated man. And while I don’t want to sound snobbish, there are precious few eligible, educated men in Pecos.”
“Have you forgotten the terms of your contract? You are a schoolteacher. You can’t be married, nor even be seen with a man.”
“I don’t intend to be a schoolteacher forever,” Margaret replied.
Sally laughed. “You are, aren’t you? You are setting your cap for the new deputy sheriff.”
“I’m sure he won’t be a deputy sheriff forever. Anyone can see that he is much too intelligent for that.”
Chapter Eight
Shady Rest
Crowley, Fletcher, and Carter were playing cards at the Pig Palace when a boy of about sixteen, wearing a Western Union cap, came into the saloon.
“Morgan? Mr. Dale Morgan? Is there someone here named Dale Morgan?” the boy called out.
Crowley was studying his hand, and made no reaction to the telegrapher’s shout.
“Morgan? I have a telegram for someone named Dale Morgan.”
“That’s you,” Fletcher said, poking Crowley.
“What’s me?”
“That Western Union boy is callin’ for Morgan. That’s you, don’t you remember?”
“Oh, yeah,” Crowley said. He looked toward the door, just as the delivery boy was about to leave.
“Wait a minute, boy,” he called. “I’m Morgan.”
The telegraph delivery boy stopped, and turned back. “You got any proof of that, mister? I can’t give out telegrams to just anyone.”
“These two men know me. They’ll tell you.”
“Yeah,” Fletcher said. “He’s Morgan.”
The boy came over to hand the piece of paper to Crowley; then he stood by the table for a moment.
“What are you standin’ there for?” Crowley asked.
“Most of the time when I deliver a telegram, why, the person that gets it gives me a tip,” the boy said.
“A what?”
“A tip.” The boy was surprised to see that Crowley apparently didn’t know what he was talking about.
“Don’t you know what a tip is?”
“No, what is it?”
“It means you give me money for delivering the telegram to you.”
“What for? I didn’t ask for the telegram.”
“It’s just what folks do,” the boy said, realizing that he was fighting a losing battle.
“Did whoever send this telegram to me pay for it?”
“Yes, sir, of course they did. It would not have been sent, otherwise.”
“Then go away. You got your money.”
The boy glared at Crowley for a moment, then left.
“Who sent you a telegram?” Carter asked.
“I don’t reckon I’m goin’ to know that until I open it.”
Opening the telegram, Crowley read it; then he laughed out loud. “I’ll be damned.”
“What is it?”
Crowley showed the telegram to the other two.
“My brother’s a lawman!” He laughed again. “Can you beat that?”
West Texas
It was midday when Matt approached the little town. Stopping on a ridge, he looked down at the town as he removed his canteen from the saddle pommel. The water was tepid and had a strong undertaste, but he had been sweating under the blows of the sun and knew that he needed to replace the fluid he had lost.
Matt was here simply because he had no particular place to be, other than the place he was. That meant he could, and should, go south in the winter, and north in the summer. So, why was he here in Texas in the summer, when he could have been in Montana?
He chuckled as he thought of the answer. He was here, because south was the way his horse had been headed when he left the last town.
Slapping his legs against the side of his horse he headed the animal down the long slope of the ridge, wondering what town this was.
A small sign just on the edge of town answered the question for him.
SHERWOOD
Population 103
STILL GROWING
The weathered board and faded letters of the sign indicated that it had been there for some time. Matt doubted that there were a hundred and three residents in the town today, and despite the optimistic tone of the sign, he would bet anything that the town was not growing.
False-fronted shanties lined each side of the street, straggling along for no more than fifty yards. Then, just as abruptly as the town started, it quit, and the prairie began again.
The buildings were weathered and leaning, and the painted signs on front of the edifices were worn and hard to read. An empty wagon, its wood baked white in the sun, was backed up to the general store, and the attached team of mules stood unmoving in front of it.
Matt dismounted in front of a saloon called the Watering Hole, and went inside. Shadows made the saloon seem cooler, but that was illusory. It was nearly as hot inside as out, and without the benefit of a breath of air it was even more stifling. The customers were sweating in their drinks and wiping their faces with bandanas.
As always when he entered a strange saloon, Matt checked the place out. To one unfamiliar with what he was doing, Matt’s glance appeared to be little more than idle curiosity. But it was a studied surveillance that he’d learned long ago from his mentor, Sm
oke Jensen, and he could hear Smoke’s voice now.
“Take a look around to see who is armed, and what kind of gun they’re carrying,” he said. “Look at how they’re wearing their guns—you can tell a lot by that. Also check to see if there’s anyone that you might know, but what’s even more important than that, study the faces to see if anyone recognizes you. What do you read in their faces? Is it someone who might want to settle some old score, real or imagined, for himself or a friend?”
As far as Matt could determine, there were only workers and cowboys here, all but two of them unarmed. The two who were armed were young men, and Matt was sure they were wearing their guns as much for show as anything. He would bet that they had never used them for anything but target practice, and probably not very successfully at that.
The bartender stood behind the bar. In front of him were two glasses in which some whiskey was remaining, and he poured the whiskey back into a bottle, corked it, and put the bottle on the shelf behind the bar. He wiped the glasses out with his stained apron, then set them among the unused glasses. Seeing Matt step up to the bar, the bartender moved down toward him.
“Whiskey,” Matt said.
The barman reached for the bottle he had just poured the whiskey back into, but Matt pointed to an unopened bottle.
“That one.
“Mister, I ain’t goin’ to open a new bottle just for you,” the bartender said.
Matt saw that there was a beer barrel sitting on a pair of sawhorses behind the bar.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll have a beer.”
Shrugging, the saloonkeeper took down a mug and started toward the beer spigot.
“Wait a minute,” Matt said. “Let me check that mug.”
“You’re kind of particular, ain’t you?” the bartender asked, handing the mug to Matt.
Matt looked at it, took a deep sniff, then handed it back to him. “All right.”
The bartender drew the mug of beer, then set it in front of Matt.
“Ain’t seen you before,” the bartender said. “Just come into town, did you?”
Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man The Eyes of Texas Page 6